


Hit Me With Your Heart

by skyline



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, hate blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is every possibility that Wally walked into this particular fight with a grudge heavy on his shoulders, and maybe even that he pushed for it, a little. Wally hates tension, hates the slow build of it, hates how everything drags. He likes things fast, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and stopping himself from putting his fist through Barry’s smug face has been harder than he’ll ever admit to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit Me With Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, when I have a good day, I want to write about people having hate sex. Uh. 
> 
> Also, the title is funny for me, for personal reasons. I'm noting that for three years from now, when I come back and go, good lord, why did I name it THAT?

They’re fighting. They fight all the time.

Wally’s jealous, and fuck everyone who says Barry isn’t, because he is. It blazes there, in his stupid, big eyes; not quite hate, but a solid mixture of suspicion, mistrust, and envy. It’s chips of ice in all that peridot, the innocence of Barry Allen’s expression a hard contrast with something a little too mean.

And god, his face is ridiculous. He’s like a cartoon Bambi, all long limbs and nothing at all like the rest of the Wests. Barry’s a changeling who took Wally’s place.

Never mind that even if Joe – his _dad_ , Wally’s brain whispers, but no way can he call him that yet – if Joe never took Barry in, there still would have been a gaping, Wally-sized hole in the family. It’s easier to blame it on perfect Barry, with his hair and his jealous Bambi-eyes and hey, has anyone mentioned how smart Barry is today?

Great, fine. He’s a rocket scientist, hiding a massive intellect and a matching ego under all that hair. Why can’t Iris and Joe – _Wally’s_ dad and _Wally’s_ sister – see that?

There is every possibility that Wally walked into this particular fight with a grudge heavy on his shoulders, and maybe even that he pushed for it, a little. Wally hates tension, hates the slow build of it, hates how everything drags. He likes things fast, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and stopping himself from putting his fist through Barry’s smug face has been harder than he’ll ever admit to.

So he shoves Barry, hard, and Barry stumbles a little, after Wally’s hands leave his shoulders. He hits the wall in the living room with an audible groan, the thud shuddering through the house. But Joe’s not home, and Iris has work, and it’s the two of them alone now. They can work out their differences.

Or maybe they can’t, because Barry’s lips twist into a scowl, and he’s asking, “What the hell is your problem, man?”

And Wally is saying, “My problem is you,” like this is scripted, like they’re in a movie with the absolute worst dialogue. He wants Barry to hit him, to push back, _something_. Anything other than this stunted awkwardness that festers between them, anger that can’t quite manifest and that wretched jealousy that makes Wally see green, all the time.

He says, “You’ve got no fire. You’re too perfect. Like a mannequin.”

Barry stares, a deer caught in the headlights.

He can’t, won’t, break character, Wally thinks. He wants to be the son that Joe raised him to be, the brother Iris adores. He wants to be everything Wally can’t, and screw that. Wally pushes him again and demands, “Are you a mannequin, Barry?”

It’s a sneer, the syllables of Barry’s name drawn out on his tongue, near-violent. And Barry, he’s not actually a cartoon, he’s big, and he’s up in Wally’s space faster than Wally thought possible.

It’s a jolt of adrenaline in his veins, seeing Barry’s face so up close; it’s like his heart’s kicked into overtime. It pounds and beats in kicks, the erratic rhythm of fear and anticipation nothing short of thrilling.

Wally asks again, “Are you?”

Barry’s hands wrap around Wally’s elbows, ready to shove him. His eyes are liquid heat. “No.”

He kisses Wally then, the slide of his mouth turning Wally’s spine to jelly, because no, no, _no_ , this isn’t what he was looking for at all.

Except maybe it is. He moans into Barry’s mouth, his fingertips searching until they’ve found Barry’s hips. He pulls him close, their bodies slamming together in time. Barry hisses, “What will it take to make you back off? This?” He demands, and kisses him deeper. He’s fumbling with the waistband of Wally’s jeans, asking urgently, “Or this?”

Wally gasps out a word, but he doesn’t even know what it is; _yes_ , or _more_ , or _please_. He lets Barry manhandle him back against the living room wall, denim pooling around his ankles, and all he can see is green. It’s the envy in his bones and _Barry_ , staring up at him as he drops to his knees.

A tremble that wracks Wally’s ribcage, because this isn’t happening, but okay, it _is_.

Barry’s mouth is hot and tight and warm, and who even cares that in another life they could be brothers? He works over Wally like this is something he was made to do, like Wally’s cock is the only thing his lips were created for. Wally stares at the bob of Barry’s head over his thighs, his vision as wobbly as his legs are, right now.

This is not going to last very long.

Wally’s palms slick sweat against the paint job of Joe’s living room – his house, his father’s house, he has a _father_ – and he watches Barry take him in, swallow him down his throat like all he’s ever wanted to do is suck Wally off.

The flick of his tongue alongside the pressure is too much, Barry humming in satisfaction every time Wally keens.

“Faster,” he begs, even though slower would be better. Wally wants it long and drawn out and he wants Barry to taste him, _now_ , and he wants the electric thrum under his skin to subside or get louder. Whichever.

Does it matter?

It builds in him, his body wire-tight, and Barry is generous, his fingers moving skillfully over Wally’s skin while he devours him. It’s that image of Barry, hair wild, mouth fucked, that puts Wally right over the edge. He’s blinking back supernovas, meteor showers and stars, as the whole world crashes back to a standstill.

Behind it all, licking cum off his lips, is stupid, stupid Barry. He’s watching Wally like he’s daring him to make the next move, and everything is still tinged with green.

Only it’s not envy and it’s not anger.

This time, it’s the magnetic pull of Barry Allen’s eyes.


End file.
